by Kathe Koja
—as, a floor above, in those chambers once his own and now his own again, Rupert sits in another chamber entirely—a mind’s-eye view of the laughing costumed fox, the empty seats, the patient sound of the sweeping broom—busy over his copybook history, writing as much as he may whenever Istvan is busy elsewhere. There are many tales gathered to this greater tale now, they queue and crowd up to be told, grown into a quantity of pages, more pages even than that sheaf of letters bundled in the old letter box; Istvan has yet to show him that letter box, though he recognized it at first glance with tightened lips. Let bad news keep…. Istvan’s mood this day has been fey and decidedly martial, up unusually early to purchase and page through a stack of the daily papers, sliding the rose gold ring up and down his finger: Look here, Mouse, tapping at yet another story of the city’s spirit parties. They’re more jolly than that horse’s-ass pageant, and heaps more godly too. Don’t you think? as Rupert took that hectic hand to kiss the palm, his only comment past a smile, a smile Istvan returned, then pushed from the little table to stare past the draperies to the wintry blur of the street, then as abruptly turned for the hallway, to roust up Tilde for stiff thread and needle, and mend that silver glove he now affects. Silver glove, silver cigarette case, where did he pick up that toffy case? was it stolen goods, had it come from the Paris dice game, or some place nearer by? To ask outright will bring no answer, and now it seems to have disappeared—
—as Istvan’s own smile has disappeared, gaze gone from the tumble and play around him—the lads whacking each other with the broomstick lance, setting the painted soldier-pins tumbling, “Catch it, you croaker, come on!”—to the darkness of the catwalk and the cobwebbed ceiling, and regions perhaps even darker and further still, humming Schumann’s “Dichterliebe,” There once was a knight, woeful and silent—as the knocking comes again and more urgently to the alley door. Now they all hear it, all the lads look to him as one so “Open it,” his shrug, and Pipper turns the locks upon a stranger, a strong-shouldered young man, traveler’s case in hand, hesitating on the threshold—
—that stance echoed across the city in another room, much warmer and better lit, Frédéric hesitating in the hallway until Felix Krystof waves him in past the half-aired stench of glue, a smell Frédéric remarks upon with interest: “Have new books arrived?” though Felix Krystof does not answer, indicates a chair, opens his hand to ask without words for the pages from the gypsy sack, as Frédéric hesitates again: “I—they’ve not been copied out, yet. I thought I might read them aloud to you?”
“By all means,” says Felix Krystof, concealing his impatience behind a brisk nod, signaling to watching John Abram to leave the room. John Abram has taken a mysterious dislike to Herr St. Vitus, going so far as to importune his master—
Send him off, sir. He’s a Jew, I can smell it on him.
Whether he is or is not makes no difference to my efforts, it may even enhance them. And you were a Jew once, yet your work for me is exemplary, noting with some interest the struggle in his servant’s face, the dismay and distrust and A Christian medal belongs on a Christian, said John Abram finally. He wears it to sham, I saw it myself.
Saw what?
A holy medal, sir! Hung at his tie! And his wife is a dirty gypsy, even worse than a Jew—John Abram’s volume rising, John Abram’s rancor something to be bridled; better he go brew the tea, and leave Herr St. Vitus to sit bolt upright in the supplicant’s chair and read too hurriedly his quaint hodgepodge of Greek gods and pretty sentiments: how he could even for a moment believe that such a play could ever be performed in this city, let alone as part of the Cathedral pageant—on the Cathedral’s very steps!—does not speak well to his common sense. Though poets are not meant to be sensible, they are meant to be industrious, and St. Vitus easily passes that test. All those pages, how dog-eared and notated—they will make fine fodder one day, such artifacts have much value, but for now “I must say that I’m extremely disappointed,” says Felix Krystof, as the tea is carried in, Indian tea as black as fresh ink. “This play is regrettable. Not in its execution—as always, your writing is excellent—but in the crudity of its topic,” as Herr St. Vitus freezes, reaching for the cup; there is ink on his cuff; he lets his hand fall.
“‘Crudity’? Herr Krystof, I beg your pardon, but this is a story of the finest, highest sort of love—”
“A congress of pagans and gods? There are many who would call that worse than crude, call it unholy—especially in this city, and at a Christian pageant. And you are a Christian man, Herr St. Vitus, you wear a blessed medal,” as John Abram smiles grimly behind the tea pot, lemon rind crushed and twisted in the tongs, but “What are you saying?” Frédéric asks, knowing he was right to remove that precious medal, the man Abram always eyeing it as if he meant somehow to snatch it away. “It is precisely because I stand in opposition to our city’s moral climate—”
“Please lower your voice, Herr St. Vitus.”
“—that you commissioned me to write this play in the first place! When we spoke at the supper club— Is Ovid ‘crude’? Is Homer?”
“Is Petronius? —Why are you still here?” sharp to John Abram, whose smile instantly dies, who takes his tongs and animosity into the hallway, to stand listening at the door as “My admiration for your talent,” says Felix Krystof firmly, “urges me to warn you outright, as a patron and, I believe, a friend: what’s written here is dangerous, to myself if I should sponsor it, and to you. We agreed that you would compose a spiritual examination of the city, but these pages smell frankly of the gutter, nostalgie de la boue, as if you reminisce about the days of the Mercury Theatre, and the ways in which you—managed your hygiene, there? Yes,” as the color changes in Frédéric’s face, the flush dying into pallor, as if he has sustained a sudden wound. “But to reminisce is not a young man’s proper pastime. You ought be diligent for the future, for your career, your wife and child. What do you think would happen to them if I should let you parade this,” taking the pages from Frédéric’s hand as easily as from a child’s, “at the Cathedral? The crowd would tear it to pieces. And you with it.”
“Give me— Give that back, sir. At once.”
“Herr St. Vitus—”
“Give it back!” as the vibration in the young man’s voice, even though filtered through oak, poises John Abram for reentry, his face against the door, hand on the knob—and so he is flung back with it, hard into the wall as Felix Krystof slams out, Frédéric at his heels, a furious and desperate race to the casement window that Felix Krystof wrenches open, the icy air to rush inside like a spirit that means ill and “Leave it, Herr St. Vitus!” as Frédéric, panting, grips him by the shoulders, the arm that holds the pages thrust out past the glass into the river of wind and snow. “I would sooner see you thrown from this window than allow you to injure yourself in this way—leave it, I say, and leave my house!”
“That’s my work! That is my work, you have no right—”
“I paid for it,” Felix Krystof’s voice rising past the traffic outside, livery carts and lurching trams, the hallway itself is as silent as death—until Frédéric makes one last frantic grab, to be grabbed himself, wrenched by the collar then struck in the face, knocked to his knees by a recovered John Abram, thick boot raised to do still more damage but “Stop,” commands Felix Krystof. “Herr St. Vitus, go now,” as after a long moment Frédéric slowly rises, back into the gluey room for hat and bag, John Abram lifting a threatening hand as Frédéric stops to stare at Felix Krystof, his gaze opaque with shock, then silently limps away down the stairs—
—and when all sound of his passage has faded Felix Krystof lets out a little laugh, a dry chuckle so undisturbed that John Abram stares and “I paid for theatre,” says Felix Krystof, “didn’t I,” careful to bring the pages safely inside, not one letter lost to the winds, nodding then to John Abram to relatch the window, and brush the snow from his employer’s sleeve.
Across that other, humbler, no less snowy threshold of the M
ercury a second figure has now passed, a well-made woman in a plain serge traveling coat and old-fashioned little muff, exquisite gloves a gift from another lady long gone and “It took a deal of trouble to get here,” Lucy says, past her first embrace of Istvan, Istvan who rose from the midst of the lads without a feint or bristle, only watching the young stranger enter, all their defense in his cool regard—but then Lucy appeared right behind, bags down and arms out, joyful though nettled by “All those grey-faced fellows, and not a one to answer a question or point the way! And the constables,” she marvels with a frown. “Asking every other step for papers, does a body need papers even to walk the streets of this place?”
“Well,” says Istvan, holding her off a moment to examine her, to let the smile tug at his lips, “in some places they tax you for vagrants, don’t they…. Puss, love, I see you took my advice, and let your mister mind the pot—good girl! But you should have written, we’d have met you at the station with bells on. Now,” turning back to the young man, his smile gone neutral, “who is this Merry Andrew?”
“Look closer,” Lucy’s own gaze keen from one to the other, as Mick takes a step forward, a tiny bell jingling unseen, half offering his hand—“You don’t remember?”—past the deep-sunk well of hurt, to Istvan who so clearly does not remember, whose gaze measures him as if he were a stranger: this strange fierce battered Istvan who looks like an animal of the road, and a king besides, and something else altogether that Mick cannot measure, as “I’ll be bound,” Istvan’s head to one side, his smile changing. “Can it be Mickey-Mick? Our little hallway corporal?” taking that hand in both his own, a warm clasp that to Mick seems still woefully lacking, his heart burning, the case set down with another little jingle to instantly draw Istvan’s eye. “And what’s inside there? Or should I ask who?”
“You know who,” gruffly, unwilling now to spring the locks, to bring forth Van in this unwelcoming place, his gaze turned away—to be caught at once by the young woman hurrying down the stairs, oddly dressed even for a theatre, hair wound and bound like a bread loaf, but her eyes! Like the country sky, so endlessly blue, narrowed then wide as “Is that Mademoiselle Tilde?” Lucy asks, with a smile that knows the answer and “Madame Lucy!” Tilde gasps, and the two embrace like old friends, the men beside become the audience for this moment: Lucy to see Tilde so much younger than those stern caretaking letters, a little sparrow flown up from the streets, and Tilde seeing the great settled strength of Lucy, the kindly creases at her eyes; they embrace again, this time like sisters, or mother and daughter and “How pretty you are!” Lucy says, to bring Tilde’s smile, a girl’s shy sudden smile—as over her shoulder Mick seems to have come to the same conclusion: So this is Tilde Bok? Not at all what he expected to see, a fellow could fit a bit of a girl like that right underneath his arm—while Istvan looks again to the case at Mick’s feet, it is the right size, might it possibly be—?
“And this is Ru,” Tilde beckoning her child into view, hair capped in tangles, a fold of scribbled papers tucked into his shirt-top: and Lucy nimble to drop at once to the little boy’s level, squatting eye to eye as “You like to play ninepins?” she asks with a wink. “I can knock down three with just one feather—I’ll teach you, if you like.”
Ru’s little forehead furrows, does he believe this claim? as Mamma smiles above, and the new lady, who smells of railway soot, something sour, and something sweet, takes him by the hand as if she has done so every day of his life, to lead him to the stage, the pins and Pipper and the boys, with Tilde at her side to carry the embroidery bag, so curiously heavy for its size.
Now Mick turns back to Istvan’s gaze upon him, merry and challenging, encouraging? so to forestall what his hero might say or might not, the sudden threat of a dream come true, Mick frames instead his own brusque questions, barely hearing his own words: “And Mr. Rupert’s well, then? And he’s about, hereabouts?”
“He’s upstairs.”
“You two came by our place, when Mr. Pimm and I were off traveling. But you don’t know about Mr. Pimm yet,” and “I can see,” Istvan nodding to the case again, its blued leather and careful locks, its blindingly polished brass hinges, “that there’s plenty you might tell me, about all sorts of things. Why don’t we sit down over a glass of something? Unless you’ve turned out a teetotaler? I think we’ve some Darjeeling—”
“I’ll have whatever’s clean,” brows raised to the backstage table, the smeared broadsheets and dented tin cigar-rest, a crusted-up cup that Ru has been using for some game, or perhaps it is Pipper’s abandoned breakfast of hot water and half-dunked bread. Istvan follows the censorious young stare, looks back bemused to measure Mickey once again—What a mastiff the young pup grew up to be! Puss must have doused his porridge with iron tonic—and “We’ll crack a bottle,” he says, “of my own private stock—I can fully vouch for its purity. And may be you can crack open that case, and—”
“Do you play, still?” meant to sound lordly, or possibly insulting, as if speaking from a professional’s height, a professional’s knowledge that true playing cannot possibly be accomplished in such a dusty and forlorn habitat; though the effect is fully spoiled by the open dismay of his gaze, plainly taken aback to see his old teacher in what seems such a sorry spot; time for another lesson so “As you might know,” Istvan pulling out a chair for him, setting the stage, “or have seen from the windows of your ’bus—”
“I walked.”
“Then you ought have seen it plainer still—this is a town sorely in need of frolic, no matter what the law might be. I haven’t studied up on it,” reaching to free Faustus from his hung perch beside the Misters, his little horns seeming to gleam in the uncertain light, now bright, now concealed beneath the yellow hair, his red vest augmented by a sharp red pin, “but one understands it’s somewhat punitive— ‘Caliban and sawdust,’ eh?” to the solemn Faustus stare, and Mick’s own behind it: willing or not he is caught, he is held as Istvan meant and knew he should be; there was no mistaking this one, from the very beginning one saw him for a member of the tribe. “Though what the fuck difference does that make to us, yeah? We’ve our own set of laws. Now you,” smoothly to Mick—
—as quietly, from above, another audience appears, there on the stairway as still as an actor awaiting a cue, or a traveler on a peak, paused to sight the horizon and gauge how far lies still to go: Rupert in shirtsleeves and one of Frédéric’s moth-riddled scarves—Tilde’s new edict, Wear this till springtime, Ru is draped in them too—gazing down to watch Istvan in action with a burly young fellow, who might he be? and Tilde there with, is it? yes! Lucy, romping with the lads, just as she used to with her boys and girls onstage. See Tilde beam like a child herself, and Lucy not so much older when she first came to the Poppy—it is a very fine thing, to see those two together, joined up like lines that rhyme in a story, or a song. He watches, one hand on the banister, and his smile considers them all, comes tenderly at last to rest on Istvan—
“—and whomever might be sequestered in that box—it’s not your long johns stuffed in there, is it? No, I didn’t expect so—you two might care to join in this playful insurrection, since you’re here,” the Faustus beckoning to Mick to open the case, Istvan’s smile beside that mournful red-painted mien, Istvan to add, when Mick still does not move—and what the devil ails the lad? He used to be ready to play on a pin-drop—“since you know the difference between a stick of wood that’s meant to beat a fellow down and one that’s made to raise a fellow up, or at least raise up himself,” the Faustus turning then his stare to Istvan, who, with a player’s courtesy, turns that one and his own away, leaning sideways to liberate the flask from his pocket, giving Mick the moment he needs to unbend, then, enough to reach down and slip the locks, to begin to raise the lid on that puppet case—
—as the alley door opens, a cold exhalation, another heavy dash of snow and “Uncle,” Haden calling, “we’ve a fucking lark and no mistake! It’s—Oh,” his gait arrested, gaze leaping from Is
tvan with the puppet to the sidestreet bruiser at the table, and Tilde too, cornered up with some woman, a saucy missus even if not so young, who is she? “I didn’t know we’d got visitors.”
Lucy for her part squints at Haden, squints again: the same tilt of the chin, the doubled dandy’s swagger and “Who’s that?” she asks softly of Tilde: “uncle” indeed, could this black-jacket sharpster somehow be Istvan’s get? as “That’s the hayrick,” Tilde as softly back. “He’s the one helps me here,” and “Hay,” Ru waving from the stage, improvised feather in hand, all ninepins vanquished. “See what I do!”
Haden swivels to smile at the child, the case beneath the table clicking firmly shut as he approaches to offer his hand—“Haden St.-Mary, a pleasure”—to Mick, who notes without pleasure the look this St.-Mary gives to Mister Istvan, the look Istvan gives him in return, and thus is very slow indeed to rise and take that hand, a brief cold shake past a colder stare that Haden, surprised and offended, returns as coldly, that testing lasting so long it turns alarming, like fighting cocks spurring up in a ring until “It’s Mickey?” Rupert calls: all look to him. “From the Blackbird?”
“Mr. Rupert,” Mick turning on his heel, as if Haden has disappeared, as if turning will make him disappear; his voice is unnecessarily, cheerily loud. “It’s fine to see you again, sir! Brings back all the old times.”